“Ah!” he exclaimed, “one of _the_ very finest things in the way of a run that I remember! Forty-eight minutes, Mrs. Clarendon--on my word of honour, forty-eight minutes without a check, and a kill in the open. That was the day when poor Lewin Copstake broke both his legs. Ah! you know Copstake? Delighted, delighted! A mare he would ride--not up to the country; kneed the rails just in front of me, and came down a cracker.” Mrs. Clarendon related a similar incident from her own experience, giving Mr. Ruff an opportunity to get through an _entrée_. “You don’t say so, you don’t say so! Extraordinary recklessness! By-the-bye, you know Mrs. Scarlett Slapton? Know _of_ her, to be sure. Who doesn’t?--ha, ha! Which season was it? Oh, she had a clever flyer-- Meg Merrilies, bought from Lord Wakefield, I believe. I shall never forget one day in December, ’72--yes, ’72--with the Quorn.” Then followed excited particulars. “The fox broke for------,” “a burning scent,” “never dwelt between---- and --------,” “had our work cut out to live the pace,”--and so on. Isabel talked eagerly; the flush had come back to her cheeks, her gaiety was inexhaustible. She ate little, however, and only touched with her lips a glass of champagne. Her answers now and then were a trifle wide of the mark, but she never failed in outward attentiveness. Mr. Ruff probably did not catch the sigh of relief with which she at length obeyed the signal to rise. Mrs. Bruce Page got to her side in the drawing-room, and chattered with accustomed energy. Isabel encouraged her, heedless of subjects; the advantage was that a word or two put in edgewise every few minutes sufficed to this lady’s colloquial demands, and at present Isabel did not feel capable of taking a more active part in conversation. “You know,” said the gossiper, after exhausting all other topics, “that the boy Vincent has settled down at length in the most orderly way.” “Mr. Lacour?” Isabel asked, watching the speaker’s face. “Yes. He is becoming exemplary; reads law all day, like the good boy he ought to be. I’m so glad, for--to tell you the truth----” She stopped in hesitation, a most unusual thing. Isabel looked inquiringly, but with preoccupied countenance. “To tell you the truth,” Mrs. Bruce Page resumed, ruffling her fan, “I have been a little anxious about my eldest girl. I dare say you have noticed my eagerness to get Vincent settled in some way? There is no reason in the world why it shouldn’t come to something, _some_ day, you know; but for the _present_----” “Does it amount to an engagement?” Isabel asked, rather bluntly, but still without much show of interest. “Oh, my dear, nothing so premature as that. In fact, I ought not to have breathed a syllable, but to _you!_” Mrs. Bruce Page put her head on one side, and looked fascinatingly. Isabel reflected, seemed about to put another question, altered her mind and said to herself: “Now what is the woman’s precise object in telling me that--that fib?”